


Destrier

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Ficlet, M/M, PWP, Sex Toys, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-15 03:18:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4590999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin needs more than forgiveness, so he bends to Thranduil’s wrath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Destrier

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “Thorin and Thranduil have a sexual history, but broke it off after the dragon. After Balin says that the deal was their only hope, Thorin thinks things over and decides that Balin's right and asks the guards to see their King. Once in the throne room (or Thranduil's bedroom), he apologizes for his behavior, tells Thranduil he'll take the deal, and offers to do anything (with a suggestive emphasis on anything) to earn Thranduil's forgiveness. Taking the hint, Thranduil dismisses the guards and has Thorin strip. He then inserts a rather large dildo into Thorin's ass and proceeds to punish Thorin for his insolence by having Thorin bend over his knee/bed/desk/chair/etc” prompt on [the Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/9471.html?thread=20610047#t20610047).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s uncomfortable, mostly on his pride, but Thorin bears it. At least it’s easier now that the guards are gone, when they lingered through his first confession: his apology for his behaviour, and his offer to do _anything_ to earn Thranduil’s forgiveness. He isn’t particularly surprised that Thranduil grasped the hint.

The first few times Balin urged Thorin to surrender, he vehemently shot it down. It was hard enough to lose Thranduil all those years ago, harder still to see him turn away when Thorin had need of him, and knowing _maybe things would be different_ if Thorin had handled the dragon differently. He was young and brash back then and took Thranduil’s aid for granted. It took many hours of Balin’s gentle guidance from the next cell over to convince Thorin he’d grown out of that. They need out of this dungeon, but more than that, they need to go with Thranduil’s blessing, with his army ready at Thorin’s call, and maybe a part of Thorin still looks at Thranduil and misses _those days_. He’s infuriating, but he’s beautiful. 

So Thorin gave in. He bowed his head and said the bitter words, offered himself and _meant_ it, even when Thranduil ordered him to strip right there on the platform like a stranger with no other value. He did it. He let Thranduil stroll down, pace around him, rove hungry eyes over his shorter form and even reach out to _touch_ him, not so tender as it used to be. 

He let Thranduil open him with slick, searching fingers and shove a thick, toy shaft inside him, wedged hard and deep. It was one they used to tease each other with, but there’s no coyness in this game. When Thorin thinks too much of it, he can still picture the toy nestled between Thranduil’s legs, so he forces his mind not to stray there. He agreed to this, agrees still, but he doesn’t want to like it. And if he does, he won’t show it. He won’t give Thranduil the satisfaction. He bends over Thranduil’s knee with a scowl, hating these long legs more than ever. 

The throne’s too high. Thorin’s stomach is safely over Thranduil’s thighs, his cock resting just against them, but his legs are bent at an awkward angle and can’t find good purchase. He has to bend too far forward to reach the floor, so he only holds onto Thranduil’s legs. In the old days, Thranduil would’ve tied him. But they were together then, knew each other’s boundaries, and now Thranduil makes it clear that Thorin can end it at any time, though then he’ll take no soldiers with him when he leaves. For a fraction of a second, Thorin contemplates using his time alone with the king to strangle Thranduil, though of course he’d never do such a thing, and even if he would, he knows Thranduil’s a capable warrior in his own languid, too-pretty way.

One of Thranduil’s hands comes to rest on Thorin’s back, too light a touch to hold him down, just smoothing along the shape of his spine. The other falls to the curve of his ass. At first, it only rubs a slow circle into him, testing his firm cheeks spread open around Thranduil’s toy, and Thorin growls, “Just do it.”

Thranduil’s chuckle is maddening. It’s patronizing, like half the things that spill out of his seductive voice, and Thorin finds little in this situation amusing. But the command holds. Thranduil lifts his hand, only to bring it down in a chaste, light smack against one cheek. Thorin snorts, “Is that all you have?”

Thranduil doesn’t rise to the bait. He only gives the other cheek a little pat, then slaps them both at once, a little harder but still short. The next comes a tad faster with a bit more force, and the fourth blow makes Thorin grunt. The fifth is harder. The sixth is harsh, and Thorin’s hips are jostled forward along Thranduil’s thighs. Thorin tightens his grip, and the hand on his back presses down, the next blow coming to bounce him forward again, his bare cock slapping Thranduil’s leg. The next smack is even harder, forcing a small gasp out of his mouth. The next blow _stings_.

They increase in strength every time. Steady, rhythmic, Thranduil reigns fierce slaps across both cheeks of Thorin’s ass, already sore from the sheer girth between them. Thranduil’s hand always lingers, dragging over the reddened area, and before long, Thorin can feel the bruise that’s forming. Thranduil tenderizes his ripe flesh, hits him again and again and holds him still to stop him from thrusting forward, and Thorin breathes harder and harder and tries not to _scream_. It _burns_. Though Thranduil’s hand is soft and sweet, it may as well be covered in mail or replaced with a paddle. Thranduil’s merciless, and finally Thorin’s resolve breaks, head hanging and a ragged cry wrenched out of his lips. 

Still Thranduil goes. He lifts his knee a fraction, manipulating Thorin’s body into arching, and Thorin hangs loosely, heavy and hurt. Thranduil says nothing, and Thorin doesn’t either, just gritting his teeth to keep back his groans. Soon enough, he’s almost _moaning_ ; he always did like it _rough_ , and Thranduil’s one of the few men who’s never been afraid to hit a prince. A future king. He makes Thorin’s body _ache_ , all in his sensitive ass with blood rushing to fill his cheeks and his eager cock, pulsing hard against Thranduil’s leg. He doesn’t want to rut into it, but he keeps being slapped into it, and it keeps jostling the shaft inside him. Every once in a while, it’s slammed against that certain spot that makes him gasp, puts stars behind his eyes. Pleasure ricochets up his spine from the last one and the pounding of Thranduil’s hand on his ass and the fullness of his channel and the rub of his cock on Thranduil’s leg. He _wants_ to hate it, naked and bruised and humiliated, but it feels so _good_.

A few times, Thranduil deliberately hits the toy, dead on the bottom, shoving it farther in, where it tries to slide out because there’s no more room: Thorin’s so _full_. He feels like he’s going to burst. He’s trembling and angry, because he’s sure Thranduil can feel his hardness, and he’s too far down Thranduil’s legs to feel anything in return. A part of him wants to act a brat just for an excuse to do this all again, and the rest of him wants to beg for it to stop and move onto sweeter things while his poor rear takes a break. But he never gives in. He takes the spanking with as fierce a look as he can manage and a bright flush across both his face and ass, the head of his cock streaking Thranduil’s leg with precum. 

He gets close, so close, and the closer he comes the harder it is to be still, be silent. Finally he _shatters_ , and he thrusts his hips wantonly into Thranduil’s thigh, then back into Thranduil’s hand, rocking between like a horny dog. He can’t stop himself. He’s painfully hard, mainly from being smacked so hard and also from the soft feeling of Thranduil’s legs, even through his robes, and the _smell_ of him, the touch of his gentle hand petting Thorin’s shoulders. If Thorin could, he’d fist his fingers in Thranduil’s hair and jerk him forward for a kiss, but they’re too far apart, and Thorin only ruts against Thranduil’s thigh with his ass thrust in the air. He doesn’t dare look up, because he doesn’t want to look at Thranduil’s stupid smirk and gorgeous face. Every bit of him is horrifyingly erotic, even in smacking Thorin to his end. 

With a traitorous roar, Thorin splatters Thranduil’s robes, his cock twitching out its finish while Thorin’s hands dig into Thranduil’s thighs, and Thranduil’s hand stops its brutal beating to knead Thorin’s tender cheeks, almost massaging them, but cruelly. He pinches, squeezes, gives a few little slaps and grabs the toy, dragging it sharply in and out. Thorin’s milked of everything he has, his head dizzy from the pleasure and his body slick with sweat. He’s burning hot, even naked as he is, and his hair is sticking to his shoulders, where Thranduil idly plays with it. When Thorin’s spilled every last drop, he slumps in place, spent and feeling broken. 

It was the best orgasm he’s had in a long, long time, and it was drenched in shame from an enemy’s hand. He’s not quite sure how he feels about that. 

Thranduil pulls the shaft out of Thorin’s rear. It makes him cry out again, his sore channel clenching to spasm, the lube from its first entrance slipping down his crack. He can feel himself gaping open and knows he won’t be sitting on his ass for a while. Everything hurts too much. But he _likes_ the burn, and likes even more the way Thranduil runs a now-soothing hand along it, the other fondly petting between his shoulder blades. 

Thorin half expects to be pushed off and left on the floor, but instead, he has to be the one to do it. He practically falls over Thranduil’s knees, landing on his own and wincing, keeping his rear lifted. He finds the pile of his clothes he first peeled out of in a lump next to the throne, and he stumbles clumsily into his trousers and tunic, half sprawled on the floor and pointedly not looking at Thranduil. His cloak and armour’s already gone, but his boots he steps into. Then he tries to stand, and before he knows it, he hears the distant footsteps of guards. 

When they’re close enough, Thranduil drawls, “Escort the King Under the Mountain to my quarters.” Thorin looks sharply around, mostly surprised at the title. 

Then he scowls, because Thranduil, of course, has that smirk on his face, so horribly sexy and galling. Thorin holds glares until Thranduil lifts one dark eyebrow, and then Thorin sneers to the guards, “To a _separate_ room, and have my people follow.” The tip of Thranduil’s boot nudges his leg, and Thorin grits his teeth, begrudgingly hissing, “...If that’s all right with his majesty.”

The guards look past him to Thranduil, who nods his acceptance. Thorin looks for disappointment on his face but doesn’t find it, perhaps because he knows Thorin will come to him later, one way or another. That session was certainly... stimulating. And it reminded Thorin of just why he fell for such a handsome warrior in the first place. But he’s had enough cowing, so for now he marches off the platform without a parting word, trying hard to mask his winces on every step. It doesn’t help that his trousers are glued to his front. His only solace is that Thranduil now has a stain on his robes, and he’s going to have to offer one hell of an army later if he wants his beloved dwarf to lick it off.


End file.
